Misdemeanors
by The Ink Stained Quill
Summary: Even our favorite Tortallans get in trouble now and again . . . in fact, especially them! A series of one-shots. Characters by request and the author's whim! Now up: Beka and Rosto!
1. Alanna

Alanna

"I wish you wouldn't be so touchy all the time, Alan!" Jon burst out in frustration.

"Touchy am I? Well, at least I'm _doing _something, not just sitting around criticizing the first thing that moves within a hundred-foot radius because I'm an omniscient knight!" Alanna finally put Coram's heavy broadsword down. It was too hot to do any more.

Jon rolled his eyes at her. "Come on. Lets go get changed for dinner, fire-head."

Grudgingly, she followed him. She opened her mouth to make a remark that she would probably regret later, then closed it again with a snap. Instead, she contented herself with grumping "Don't call me that, or I'll start Your Majesty-ing you."

Jon laughed as they climbed a gently sloping stair case. "You wouldn't dare, Squire-of-mine."

She halted at the top, glaring at him from beneath her damp bangs. "Oh, wouldn't I, Your Majesty."

"Insubordination!" Jon cried, and playfully thumped Alanna on the shoulder. To the surprise of both, she teetered on the edge of the top step, then tumbled downward. He reached out reflexively to catch her, only to loose his footing as well and plummet down after her.

They both lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs, stunned, then simultaneously began howling with laughter. They didn't stop when servants came and led them away to Duke Gareth's chambers. When the man himself entered, however, the pair managed to sober themselves slightly.

"What's all this I hear about you fighting?" The Duke asked suspiciously."The servants say they found you at the bottom of a staircase, covered in bruises." he eyed a magnificently purple one coming up on Alanna's cheek. "I must say, I never thought to hear of the two of you coming to blows."

Jon began chuckling again, so Alanna said, "Well, we were arguing, Your Grace, I'll admit. But then we –" She lapsed into giggles.

The Duke frowned, puzzled. Was it possible that the lads had punched each other insensible?

Jon picked up where his squire had left off. "Honest, Uncle, its the gods' own truth – we fell down."

Even the Duke had to smile.

* * *

**Who should I do next? -- Lizzy**


	2. Kel and Dom

**By request of BrokenFaerie16:**

Kel and Dom

"So, are you tired of mud yet, Kel?"

She looked up from retying her boot lace and smiled at Dom. For the past week, rain had fallen from the sky in great bucket loads, drenching the Own. Progress had been slow, since they had to lead the horses.

"Not at all! I could live off the stuff. I particularly enjoy how it gets caked into Raoul's armor."

Dom grinned. "What finer task could a squire such as yourself ask for then to spend hours every evening scraping half-dried mud out of our glorious Knight Commander's gear? In fact, I wonder why my cousin hasn't turned green with envy."

"He gets to pick sand out of the Lioness's things. Maybe that's even more fun." She stood up, dusting off her knees.

"All these wonderful opportunities extended to squires. How are you to choose? Mud, sand, dirt, ice -- all lovely options. But, " he smiled. "There are opportunities that we sergeants get not extended to the likes of Meathead."

"Oh? Like what?"

Dom smiled crookedly at her. "Opportunities like this," and he pressed his lips gently to hers.

A curious, strangled noise made the pair look up, startled. Raoul stood before them, looking at if he'd been kicked in the chest, all the air forced from his lungs with shock. He blinked once, twice. Finally, he spoke, and his voice was hoarse.

"Sergeant . . . "_ blink, blink,_ " . . . why . . . " _blink, blink, blink. _He seemed incapable of finishing his sentence. Then suddenly he roared. "_Why in the name of all that's holy are you kissing my squire?"_

"Sir!" Dom saluted crisply, removing his arm from around Kel. "If you will hear my humble opinion, your squire was badly in need of kissing."

"I've never heard that kissing was beneficial to the health," Raoul spluttered.

"Oh, its renowned for its remarkable ability to put a spring in the step and color in the cheeks." He peered at Raoul with kindly concern. "Though, if you don't mind my saying so, sir, our kissing seems to have put rather _too _much color in yours!"

**Next time: Gareth the younger, by request of ShadowMoonDancer. Who comes after that? --Lizzy**


	3. Gareth the Younger

** By request of ShadowMoonDancer:**

Gareth the Younger

Gary had always looked remarkably like his father, with the same chestnut hair, warm brown eyes, large nose and powerful build. Even when he was a baby, people were in the habit of exclaiming "Oh! Why Duke Gareth, he looks just like you!" When he was older, it annoyed him, but short of cutting off his nose there wasn't much he could do about it.

Afterwards, he thought to himself, _I'll get Alan or Jon to use their Gift to change how I look! Then this will never, ever happen again. Gods help me if they won't, I think I _will _cut off my nose! _But that was afterwards, and by then it was too late . . .

-

Gary was walking across a small inner courtyard of the Palace. It was a clear morning, and promised to be a fine day. Summer was almost here, but the air still smelled of spring, of small, pale flowers lifting their heads after the long winter and ice melting. There was a bench off to the side, against a wall, and upon the bench sat a shriveled little old man. His skin reminded Gary of a a peeled apple left out in the sun for days.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely. It was, after all, a very small courtyard, and the old man was staring at him so!

"Oh, yes!" the man cried, pulling himself to his feet hastily. He leaned upon a stick as he approached Gary. "I wasn't sure before, but now I've heard your voice, I am quite certain it is you. Forgive me, Duke Gareth, but I'm a rather short sighted these days. It's wonderful to see you again, and looking so well. I could have sworn you were ten years younger."

_Make that twenty-nine, _Gary thought to himself. He opened his mouth to disabuse the man of the notion that he was his father the Duke, then hesitated (_my stupid mouth! _he thought later.) The Duke was a very busy man, and surely Gary was seventeen, old enough to take care of a small matter with an old man like this!

"You look well yourself," he said.

"A lie, I'm afraid, Your Grace. But a kindly one."

"Not at all. What did you wish to talk about?"

"Oh, only to tell you, old friend, that my family and I will be uprooting ourselves at last to come to court. My son has things well in hand back home. I'm sure you remember my wife?"

"Why of course," Gary said, rather wishing that he hadn't begun this whole mess. "Who could forget her? I look forward to seeing her again."

"Whats that? So eager? Your Grace, you are still far too young a man to have thoughts of such things."

"What do you mean?"

The old man went on as if he hadn't heard. "After all, she died not long after your own dear wife, though She was blessed with many more years."

_Snap, _Gary thought. _Dead! What do I say now?_

As matters turned out, he didn't have the chance even to begin to think of something to say.

Raoul came bounding into the courtyard. When he caught sight of the bent old man, he let out a glad cry. "Grandfather! I'd heard that you were here! What brings you all the way from Goldenlake?" He embraced him, then caught sight of Gary. "I see you've met our youngest Naxen. Have you introduced yourself, Gary?" Not waiting, he continued. "Grandfather, this is Gareth the Younger of Naxen."

"The Younger?" the old man asked in kindly confusion. "Why, then you must be no older then my grandson here! Isn't that a bit young to be made a Duke?"

_Snap, snap, snap,_ Gary thought.

Few and far between were the times when Duke Gareth shouted, but when he was told the news, his bellow could be heard all over the palace, from the top of Balor's Needle to deepest depths of the catacombs beneath the ground.

"GAR_ETH_! COME HERE THIS INSTANT AND _EXPLAIN YOURSELF!"_

-

_My stupid, stupid mouth, _he thought as he scrubbed pots down in the kitchen. A bell tolled. _One hour down, four hundred and ninty-nine to go._

He plunged a carving knife into the soapy dishwater, then looked at it appraisingly. No, he wouldn't cut off his nose. After all, he might still have the chance to grow into it one day, if he didn't pull any many more stupid stunts like this one.

**Next time: Beka and Rosto, by request of Lioness's Heart. (I'm going in the order they're put down in reviews, by the way.) -- Lizzy  
**


	4. Beka and Rosto

**By request of Lioness's Heart:**

Beka and Rosto

_"To tangle with our Terrier,  
You'd be worse'n a fool,  
She brave and true; a really Dog,  
And she brought down old Lant with a stool!_"

Beka covered her ears and roared, "If I hear one more person singing that sarden song, I swear he'll feel the bite of my baton!"

Sniggers arose from the crowd packed into the Dancing Dove. Most nights, the Dove was filled with petitioners or challengers or Rats waiting to make their reports. Tonight, it was full of spectators.

Beka moaned quietly to herself and rested her forehead down on the table. What had possessed her to do it?

Hearing someone slide onto the bench next to her, she said in a muffled voice, not caring who it was, "I will never live this down, will I."

A familiar chuckle sounded. It was Rosto, of course. Who else would have the nerve to sit down by the Terrier when she was in a mood? He said, "If half the things I've heard are true, then you're right. What really happened?"

"What have you heard?"

"That you the Dogs were in a tight corner when it came to that villain Lant, and you, Tunstall and Goodwin had been sent to sort him out. Something about a fight, with you and Lant the last one's standing, you without your baton and him with a big long knife. It was pretty muddled after that."

Beka mumbled something.

"You did what?"

She lifted her head to face him with a martyred expression. "I shouted that he was a no-good Rat, and gave him a crack over the nob with a stool that had been sitting in the corner where we made our stand."

A rowdy old cove with a tankard in his hand whooped. "And a right solid crack it was too, gixie!"

Someone else called, "Aye, a stool's the proper tool for the job!"

Rosto tried and failed to keep a straight face. "Come with me. We'll get Kora to do something about that cut on your cheek."

Beka smiled ruefully as she stood and followed him into the kitchens. "Do you know if she has anything for injured pride?"

"No, she doesn't. But I do."

"Oh, and what's that?"

They had halted in front of the warm ovens. Rosto leaned over. "This," he said, and kissed her.

The rowdy old cove with the tankard whooped again. He was peering around the kitchen door watching them.

Beka's face went as red as a poppy. The way news spread, everyone in Corus would know before the day was out that a Dog had been caught kissing a Rat.

As she fled up the stairs, she could hear someone in the room next door singing:

_"Oh, some'un's tangling with our Terrier,  
He's got her heart for good,  
But what'll happen when Tunstall hears,  
Beka en't acting as she should!"_

"I hate you, Koramin Ingensra," Beka muttered as she slammed her door.

-

**Next time: Daine and Numair by request of singinandlovinit.**

-

**I just wanted to let you all know that this was inspired by a poem I found while doing some research for school. I thought I'd paste it in here so you can have a look. It made me laugh so hard!  
**

The Song of Mrs. Jenny Geddes

_By John Stuart Blackie_

'Twas the twenty-third of July, in the sixteen thirty-seven,  
On the Sabbath morn from high St. Giles the solemn peal was given;  
King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed rule;  
He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool.

The Council and the Judges, with ermined pomp elate,  
The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state,  
Fair silken-vested ladies, grave doctors of the school,  
Were there to please the King, and learn the virtues of a stool.

The Bishop and the Dean came in wi' mickle gravity,  
Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their eye;  
Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny pool;  
They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a stool.

The Dean he to the alter went, and, with a solemn look,  
He cast his eyes to heaven, and read the curious-printed book:  
In Jenny's heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full;  
Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool!

As when a mountain wildcat springs upon a rabbit small,  
So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall;  
Wilt thou say mass at my lugs, thou popish-puling fool?  
No! No! She said, and at his head she flung the three-legged stool.

A bump, a thump! A smash, a crash! Now gentle folks beware!  
Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came twirling through the air,  
With, well done, Jenny! Bravo, Jenny! That's the proper tool!  
When the Devil will out, and shows his snout, just meet him with a stool!

The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear,  
The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear,  
The Bishop and the Dean went in sorrow and in dool,  
And all the Popish flummery fled when Jenny showed the stool!

And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny's valiant hand,  
Black Prelacy and Popery she drove from Scottish land;  
King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a meddling fool,  
But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool!

**Please remember: I didn't write it. I realize that it might offend some people, but then, what won't? Take it in the sense it was shared in: good fun.**


End file.
